


Kiiroibara

by starwrite_er



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Starring Role by MARINA fits the vibes for this if u need a tune btw, my fave version of this AU, not my usual style but it is what it is, pt 2 i listened to Somebody That I Used To Know on repeat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starwrite_er/pseuds/starwrite_er
Summary: It’s bittersweet, seeing the guilt in his eyes.I want him to love me the way I love him, and I know he would never wish this fate upon me. He’s a good friend, after all.But my lungs are aching and I am dying, and a little part of me wishes he suffers the pain he’s caused me too.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 110





	1. Kiiroibara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yellow rose - kiiroibara - 黄色い薔薇

The sun is setting as I return home, and I find myself happy.

Bumping shoulders with one of my teammates - Hana Satou - we exchange gossip, the academic year still relatively new, offering fresh stories. It’s our last; we might as well spend it giggling.

The conversation flits from classes to classmates, from practice to rivals, from captain to captain.

“He’s pretty, but he’s so vain! Even if he’s good at what he does, I’m still surprised he landed captain,” Hana says. “You’re actually friends with him - you have to deal with his attitude all the time!”

“Nah, he’s kinda insufferable, but I love him really.” I laugh, punching my friend’s shoulder lightly. She snickers along with me, rolling her eyes.

I clear my throat. And then again. Hana glances at me, giving an odd look, so I make my final cough as dramatic as possible.

She laughs. I would too, but there’s something stuck to my tongue-

My blood runs cold.

“[Y/N]? You okay?”

My friend has stopped a few steps ahead of me, looking back with a concern-laced expression. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying desperately to keep myself from panicking.

I pluck the object from my mouth. I crack open my eyes. My bag thumps to the ground as I catch sight of the petal.

I follow soon after, falling hopelessly to my knees as I clutch the yellow petal, unable to tear my gaze away even as my vision blurs and I begin to hiccup. I’m vaguely aware of shoes pounding on the ground before arms wrap around me.

_This makes no sense. I’ve never even considered that kind of attachment. How could this be happening?_

I wail.

_I don’t love him. I can’t love him. He’s one of my closest friends, I’ve never felt like that before. I can’t love him, I can’t-_

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Hana stokes my hair, cooing empty reassurances to me as I cling to her, trying to drown out my inaudible ramblings with her own voice. There’s a tremor in her words. She’s crying too. She’s scared. “We can fix this. You’ll be okay.”

I acknowledge the hollow feeling in my chest, the nausea that claws its way up my throat.

“You’ll be okay.”

I almost want to laugh, hysterical.

“You’ll be okay.”

No, I won’t.

The yellow petal is crumpled in my grip, shadowy lines and creases marring its former beauty.

What the fuck it that supposed to symbolise anyway?

* * *

I start to pick my words more carefully from that point onward. One petal was enough to send me spiralling, but maybe - just maybe - it was a fluke, a side-effect of me joking about loving him. If I refuse to believe I’ve been afflicted, maybe it won’t continue.

A voice in the back of my mind hisses at me, berating my naive hope. I ignore it.

It was right, though.

The second I lay eyes on that stupid mop of brown hair I feel a scratch in my throat. I try to stifle it, try to stuff the feeling away. It just makes it worse, and the petal comes spurting out my mouth anyway.

I conceal it before it’s noticed.

“You okay?” Iwaizumi raises a brow at me.

“Yeah, just think I’m coming down with a cold or something.”

A brief pause. “It’s late spring.”

I falter and shrug, playing the comment off. “Beats me. Must have allergies or something.”

That’s the end of the conversation.

* * *

I feel Hana’s worried gaze burning holes in my blazer wherever I go.

I ignore her and the tickling in my throat. I don’t need her concern, I can handle myself. This isn’t a problem.

* * *

It’s okay, I’ve decided. Uncomfortable, but okay. I really am fine. The initial breakdown when I realised what was happening to me was the worst part, the hardest hurdle to get over, but Hana was right. It is okay. I can handle a petal or two a day. This is liveable. I’ve adjusted over the past fortnight.

Yeah, I realise that’s a fucking lie when I see his stupid charming grin, playing the part for his admirers.

 _Smack_.

I lose myself in the repetitive serve drills, tossing ball upon ball into the air and hitting them until my palm feels raw.

 _Smack_.

They’re not the ones hacking up rose-filled lungs. Their infatuation means nothing. They haven’t truly been by his side over the years the way I have.

 _Smack_.

God, then why does it hurt so much?

“[Y/N]-chan! I thought I heard someone in here-“

“Fuck off.” My words are so sharp, so cold, I myself am taken aback. I glance for a mere second at Oikawa in the doorway, finding him wearing an uncharacteristically surprised expression. I feel a seed of guilt needling at my conscious but don’t speak up.

The last volleyball bouncing to a still is the only sound in the gym as I take my leave.

* * *

I stare at the petal caught between my fingers for a beat longer before shoving it away, out of sight and almost out of mind.

“Iwaizumi?”

“Yeah?”

“D’you know what yellow roses mean?”

He blinks at my strange question, a flicker of suspicion passing over his face. “No-“

“Why are you asking _him_? It’s not like he’s the one getting flowers.” I suck on my teeth at Oikawa’s interjection.

“Okay then, do _you_ know what yellow roses mean?”

A pause. He shrugs nonchalantly. “Nope.”

I glare at him. How is he the reason I’m-

No, thinking like that is no help.

“Stop being a prick.” Iwaizumi says with a swift smack to the back of Oikawa’s head.

“Ow!” The setter pouts, rubbing the back of his skull and shooting his childhood friend a look before turning his attention. “Why the sudden interest in flowers anyway, [Y/N]-chan?” I don’t answer, progressively getting more flustered as he leans into my personal space. It feels as though the closer his proximity, the more the rosebush in my lungs grows. His sly smile and lidded eyes don’t help. “Is there something we should know? A secret admirer, perhaps?”

I swallow thickly. “Something like that.”

I feel a burning in my chest. I can’t tell if it’s humiliation, unrequited love, or both.

Iwaizumi drags him away from me before I’m forced to elaborate. “Stop being weird, shittykawa.”

I take advantage of Oikawa’s moment of indignant distraction to cough up the rosebud in my throat.

* * *

Beads of sweat tickle as they drip down my face, my eyes wide and heart pounding as the rally keeps going. We just need this one more point to win, but it’s turned into a seemingly never-ending stream of hits and call-outs.

The tone of the ball colliding changes. Wood rather than skin.

A painstaking beat passes.

The whistle blows and the scoreboard changes.

The Aobajohsai crowd erupts while our team is dragged into a happy huddle, victory firmly within our grasp. Grins and laughter accompany the congratulatory slaps on each others’ backs.

I struggle to catch my breath, smiling despite my aching lungs.

I glance around the gymnasium, feeling a pang of pity for the opposing team but a rush of pride surges through my veins as I see my schoolmates in the stand waving, beaming at us.

Next to them is the Aobajohsai boys volleyball team, and amongst them is a far too recognisable figure.

Catching sight of him, it feels like the roots have woven through my ribs and suddenly constricted, winding me, forcing the corolla from my deteriorating lungs.

My ears ring as I splutter, knees hitting the floor painfully. I grab at my shirt as if it’ll provide me any relief, tears spilling over and mingling with sweat as I heave. I’m barely aware of the panic surrounding me, my teammates yelling for help as someone slams my back to try and help dislodge the floral arrangement in my throat.

A vaguely conscious voice in the back of my mind notes how terrible yellow and red look against white and blue.

...Red?

For the first time, the yellow rose petals scattered around me are flecked with blood, staining my pristine uniform where they touch.

It offers a vile, unwanted moment of clarity.

It’s almost too late.

As I gasp for air, lightheaded, I begin to sob, clinging to myself as all the eyes in the room watch me.

“I- I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to- it’s gross and-“

“How long?” The coach cuts me off. She sounds angry, but her eyes betray her fear.

“A few months-“

“Since the beginning of the academic year.” Hana cuts in. Tears mar her face. She clings to me, but I feel her hands trembling.

“And you didn’t tell anyone?” The coach sounds furious.

“How could I?” I cry out. “I- I’m dy- I’m-“ I swallow thickly, dropping that attempted sentence. My words sound meek, foul on my tongue. “I can’t be in lo- I can’t. I’m not-“

“Who is it?” I glance up at the firm voice. The tremble in it is almost unnoticeable, but Iwaizumi’s fists are clenched and I know he’s trying so hard to hold it together. Guilt needles at my heart for causing those closest to me such grief.

Beside him is the root of the problem, disbelief written across his face.

I feel the corners of my mouth curl downwards.

“It doesn’t matter.” Every syllable is bitter, laced with resentment.

“Yes, it does!” Oikawa snaps. “Stop acting like you’re above us and either talk to them or _cut the flowers out_ -“

He shuts up at the sound of my dry, sardonic laugh.

“ _Don’t_ ,” I say. “Just, _don’t_. I don’t want to hear it from _you_.”

More of my tears spill over, and for those that heard me, it seems to click.

Iwaizumi sighs, closing his eyes. Oikawa is frozen in place. Hana tugs my arm lightly, a weak attempt to pull me away from the staring contest I’ve initiated with the man I’m apparently in love with.

“That’s why you were asking about yellow roses a while back,” Iwaizumi mutters. “I should’ve known-“

“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” I interrupt his self-berating. A strange calm has come over me now that my secret is finally out for all to see, in the form of a bloodied flower on the floor nonetheless. “Seriously. It’s my problem, not yours.”

Nobody wants to accept that, but there’s a helpless second of silence. It’s hard to argue when there’s no clearcut solution.

“What did they mean?”

I blink.

“What?”

“The flowers,” Oikawa’s voice is quite, but his gaze is unwavering. “What did they mean?”

A new wave of tears spring to my eyes. I try to wipe them away nonchalantly, as if speaking to him isn’t causing me immense pain. “Depends. According to Japanese tradition, they mean jealousy, which... well, it’s not entirely inaccurate,” I shrug, feeling as though I’m confessing my sins. I always did wish I was as fine a setter as he is. “But in the west, yellow roses mean friendship and devotion.”

It’s bittersweet, seeing the guilt in his eyes.

I want him to love me the way I love him, and I know he would never wish this fate upon me. He’s a good friend, after all.

But my lungs are aching and I am dying, and a little part of me wishes he suffers the pain he’s caused me too.

* * *

My condition accelerates after that unspoken rejection. Over the coming weeks I find everyone’s eyes seemingly following me wherever I go, hushed whispers of pity and fear accompanying their gaze. There’s always a bloody tissue in my pocket. There’s always thorns scratching at my throat.

I’m kept under near constant surveillance. Everyone begs me to have the plant removed.

Nothing changes. He still doesn’t love me, even if I’ve accepted I love him.

At first my denial kept me from taking that course of action, but now I think I just don’t care enough anymore.

It’s an interesting way to go, at least. A tragedy, of course, but still not the norm. I find a vague comfort in this.

People will remember me.

* * *

I’m so, so tired of the pity I’m constantly presented with.

More than ever, I don’t want it now. Not when his silence speaks volumes.

He swallows thickly. “I’m-“ He inhales deeply, steeling his nerves I assume. It’s not like him to appear this... weak. “I’m sorry.”

I stare at him blankly. He stares back. If he’s expecting an answer - which he presumably is - he doesn’t show it.

I shrug.

“It’s not your fault.”

“But it _is_ -“ There’s an edge to his voice and he catches himself. “If I just did _something_ , you wouldn’t be-“

“You don’t love me, and that’s not your fault. It’s not your fault I love you, either. We can’t change it.” My interjection is soft-spoken, reassuring.

But my jaw is clenched. I shouldn’t be the one comforting him right now.

He swallows his words again, tears welling up and spilling over and I almost roll my eyes.

Then he gently takes my hands in his and squeezes them, and with a pang in my core I recognise his sincerity. Years of unconditional friendship doesn’t just vanish, and assuming he’s just trying to clear his conscious before I go is a stupid thought. I of all people should know his motives better than that. Guilt nestles itself amidst the thorn bush woven into my chest.

Ignoring it is easier though.

Acknowledging it just makes things _hurt._

* * *

I’m alone when it happens.

I cling to my poetic end when I realise this is where I coughed up the first petal. Unlike then, there is no one to comfort me, to assure me things will be okay. I pushed everyone away in a vain attempt to protect myself from the inevitable, and devotion only goes so far.

It’s better this way. Less traumatic. Nobody’s memory of me needs to be marred by the image of petals, blood, and bile spilling from my lips, my face fading from red to purple as I struggle to breath, eyes bloodshot and weeping. My knees and palms scrape against the concrete, nails clawing at my throat.

The acrid taste pervades my senses - stomach acid burning my mouth and the metallic tang of my own blood staining my tongue. It’s vile, it’s bitter, and it _hurts_ , and it’s exactly how I feel about this situation, about my final moments. It’s not _fair_.

My vision is patchy, darkening, a vignette cast over a golden world.

The sun is setting as I struggle to recover, and I find myself resentful.


	2. Manjushage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> red spider lily - manjushage - 曼珠沙華

Though he presented himself in a manner that would suggest otherwise, Oikawa was the kind of person that wouldn’t let something as fleeting as love distract from his passions. The way he always prioritised volleyball had caused relationships to break apart before, but he never truly regretted it.

Because of volleyball, nobody could get close enough to him to suffer the worst consequences, and so volleyball remained the one true constant in his life.

But now all that he could think of when he saw the reds and yellows of the different balls were the bloodied rose petals on the court floor.

A dear friend was dying and it was his fault. There was a seed of regret planted by his one true love for volleyball.

He blinked and shook his head. No, not a seed. Not a _seed_.

_Seeds- Plants- Flowers- Roses- Petals- Asphyxiation-_

He’s actually grateful for the smack of rubber against his skull, for Iwaizumi’s berating. It jolted him from his thoughts: the game of word association his mind constantly played receiving an abrupt interruption.

He chose to ignore the concern behind Iwaizumi’s eyes, but a needling voice - the same one that refused to let him rest until he’s perfect, no matter the injury, no matter the cost - raised the question of whether or not Iwaizumi blamed him.

Probably. Hell, Oikawa blamed _himself_.

His friend’s affliction ( _friend, friend, friend_. That was exactly the _problem_.) was dire - Oikawa had no idea how she hid it for so long - but perhaps there was just enough time left to convince her to have the literal root of the problem cut from her lungs. That, or maybe by some miracle he’d return her feelings in time.

He knew it wouldn’t happen though, and if petals wouldn’t choke him, his guilt certainly would.

* * *

It would seem he wouldn’t be the first to choke though.

He’s numb when he hears the news, oh so very numb, the blood rushing in his ears the only accompaniment to the fog that settled over his mind. He’d regard his clammy hands with distaste if he was present enough to notice them. He didn’t feel the ache in his fingers as they gripped the beige material of his school uniform trousers, knuckles white.

No, there wasn’t enough time. It’d only been a few weeks. He should have had more _time_.

He felt nauseous.

Eyes bore into his soul where ever he went, but the gazes of his schoolmates no longer hold the same respect and admiration. They were cold, judgemental, _blaming_. With a heavy heart, he found he couldn’t bring himself to disagree with their accusations.

The first time he immediately leaves the scene and locks himself in the toilet is when a loyal member of his fanclub had the audacity to blame Y/N for her condition.

When he throws up, the only thought passing through his mind was a conjured image of her final moments.

* * *

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder.

They also say time heals all wounds.

He’d feel a great deal better if his body could pick an idiom and stick with it.

It was truly infuriating. It got easier with every passing day, it did, but there was still something that lingered in the back of his mind, haunting his very soul. The guilt faded, little by little, and he convinced everyone that he didn’t need help, he didn’t need therapy, he didn’t need guidance on how to cope. He almost convinced himself, too.

But there were some things that just hurt.

Seeing a new student take her old desk left him feeling bitter. It felt disrespectful. It didn’t feel real, as if Y/N would come walking through the door at any moment and stare at the student for a few lingering moments before turning her attention to Oikawa. They’d exchange a look, scoffing at the poor fool that had mistakenly sat there, before she’d take her place with some good-natured faux politeness.

She never walked through that door though, and the desk became that student’s permanent place.

The sting of his palm after serving the ball was satisfying, it served to him as an indicator of his work ethic - if it hurt, he did it well.

It was a counterproductive measure at times, but sometimes that sting was the only thing that kept him grounded. Raw hands and beads of sweat reminded him he was alive, that he was working, that he was improving.

The euphoria of winning a tough match simply built on this - but the sting of realising he couldn’t share his victory stories with an old friend was one he found no comfort in.

One day he took a detour on the way home after practice. The setting sun was pretty, truly, but there were no friends or teammates to distract his thoughts. There was an absentminded realisation that his feet had taken a path that ran by an old park he once frequented.

A long lost memory was unearthed when he saw the swing set. The one he’d spent hours on was still in perfect condition, but the seat she preferred was dangling. One of the two chains was clinging on, while the other was rusted and neglected, snapped clean in half.

It was hardly something to get teary-eyed at, but Oikawa sobbed until the sky turned indigo and the stars gazed forlornly upon him.

* * *

Finding a gift from an admirer in his locker made him lightheaded. Once upon a time he’d smile and thank those that built up the courage to make such a move, but there was an ache in his heart at the sight of such a gesture now. He never wanted someone to harbour affection for him again. He knew he would never return their feelings, and seeing such a fate befall another would be too much, to put it simply.

This gift in particular though made him question whether it was truly a gift or not. A flower and a note seemed innocent enough, but it left a vile taste in his mouth.

Yellow roses are what killed her, after all.

Oikawa swallows thickly before a dry laugh bubbles up out of him, a weak coping mechanism when faced with such an insult. His laughter grows, manic, hysterical, until he coughs, something caught in his throat.

Pulling the petal from its place on his tongue didn’t fill him with the anguish he might’ve expected. Rather, he felt almost relieved, as if he were finally receiving his due punishment.

He was glad he was alone in this moment. He didn’t want the prying eyes of his friends, his teammates, his fans. The petal of a red spider lily was his problem to deal with alone.

He knew it was foolish - the dead cannot love you back - but if she wouldn’t cut the foliage from her lungs, then neither would he.

Red spider lilies symbolised a final goodbye, after all. Oikawa was willing to suffer for his passions, and though he once thought that solely meant his sport, it was more than that now.

The note in his locker was swiftly torn up, but the yellow rose remained.

He had a few more things he wished to accomplish in his final year of school before it was too late, but inevitably a lily would soon join that rose.

Perhaps the ache growing in his lungs was some divine retribution.

Perhaps he deserved it.


End file.
